Scrape, scrape, wince.


Scrape. Scrape. Wince.

Oh the dentist's office. You sit down in a reclining chair that seems designed to be comfortable, but is actual built to prevent easy escape. You're given headphones and a TV remote, but only have daytime TV. If  you can hear it over the dentist equipment.

Then they break out the implements, which my technician helpfully sharpened. Loudly. And of course I calmly sat there and let her do her job. 

Okay fine. I sat there and softly cried - like a BIG KID, goddamn it.

Needing something to keep those cries inaudible over my 'neighbor's' discussion of his leg injury, I tried to watch an old western. NOPE. That scrape goes right from tooth to ear. So I turned my brain to my book. And, in between winces, I realized how much editing is like going to the dentist. 

Its necessary - healthy, even - but damned uncomfortable. It always takes longer than you want, and sucks if you have a serious gag reflex. Worst of all, you have to CONFESS to things. Things you knew were wrong, yet were hoping you'd get away with because you had to choose between fixing that paragraph or eating a donut. And dammit it was chocolate. 

Editors, like dental hygienists, get right in there and the good ones take no prisoners. My hygienist will ask, "Do you floss regularly?" And I'll mumble something that could be interpreted as 'yes.' But I know as soon as they look in my mouth...

My editor knew I hadn't flossed in places. (By which I mean I'd avoided dealing with word plaque because... *cough* Nevermind, you get it.)

Needless to say my word-plaque has been uncovered. The tools have been sharpened. And now all I need to do is pull up those big kid pants I claim to wear and get on with it. Because just like my post-dentist mouth, my book will be healthier (and nicer to look at) with all that coffee-driven debris gone. 

Also my spouse claims keeping my teeth is important... It seems he has plans for when we're seventy.

Until next time, I'll be editing!